I do not know if I
would have been able
to tell you all things
considered — the present
though is what we have
I have the gift of
presence
Get that?
present and presence
I didn’t make it up but I couldn’t
have anyway
This is it
The whole ball of wax
one big present
event waking + sleeping

coming and going

breathing in
and blessing out

Compassion
Redemption
Cohesion
Absolution

Always finds a voice in
This now this
Clearer spirited yes
This wise wild
calamity of
being

This, That, + the other
so if you indeed
ask me
I probably couldn’t
quite begin to
Tell you but
I would
Try

How could they think that

The goose was fine after the wine?

All night long she dropped eggs all over town,

While chasing the gander.

Feathers blanketing the ground.

Now no pillow have I!

I close my eyes and pretend 
I prop you up and make excuses for your behavior 
I lie to my friends and say I’m fine 
I tell my sister that it’s really a great life 
I post pretty photographs on Facebook 
Inside I die a little bit every single day
While you look through me 
When I can take it no more
I look at me and see
There’s so much more to me 
Than pretty photographs by the sea
I leave you 
And I find me

Be careful where you go.
I know, I know. 
I want to scream. 
Can’t I, just for today, not be careful. 
Just for today, can I be careless? Like a child. Carefree, I mean. 
Unsure. Imperfect. Me.
Can I run without looking.
Jump without a net.
Sing out loud missing every key.
And revel in being me.
Silly, naive, mean spirited, too.
A daredevil riding without a helmet, speeding ahead into the unknown and grinning, wildly, maniacally, cackling and hitting the wall in peace.

My hiding place has been discovered. Shit! When you’re 5’9” playing hide and go seek with a 3 year old in a 3 bedroom apartment, there are not a lot of good hiding places to squeeze into. And suddenly you realize this is just a game and you are meant to be having fun. All of it. You are meant to be having fun with all of it. The good. The bad. The ugly. Stick your hands in the mud and let your fingers play, draw and paint with mud. Get dirty. Relax. Breathe. Laugh. Giggle. Be. Isn’t that better. Be like a 3 year old. Look at the world with joy, awe and a sense of wonder as you discover a new way of being with the human race. 

I feel uncharted roads are obsolete or a relic of the past, but in all honesty that's just my ego. When I search for peace, wisdom, and knowledge I realize they are futuristic roads that have yet to be discovered by man. And I find myself intrigued again. Like finding buried treasure and what that may hold excites me. I vision Pandora's  box disguised as a clunky old rusted and rotting pirates chest. But inside carries the seven wonders of the world at their peak of existence. Much like a pirate who looks rough, tough, and treacherous, but only his crew, ship, and loved ones know the love, loyalty and compassion he carries within. Though I haven't been on this road rough and scary. Paradise may be on the other side.

My options were running out. Death was knocking at my door. It was either get help or die. I didn’t have much time. My friends were no longer friends, my family didn’t understand and couldn’t help me. I didn’t have much time. The sleeping pills are kicking in now, the whiskey is drowning me. I either fight to stay alive or just disappear into the unknown, all I know is I didn’t have much time. To feel alive is one thing, to just exist is another. Either way, I didn’t have much time. I wake up in a fog, no real recollection of anything. I decide to seek help because I didn’t have much time. Days turn to weeks, that turn to months, that turned to years. I wanted to get better but I didn’t have much time. Now it seems I have all the time in the world.

I am from my Mother and Father,

Born in flesh.

I am from a time not like this one,

Can’t choose what’s next.

Time aren’t the same, people have grown, but

Where I am from is a place not yours

But my own.

I am from the 80s, yes

Let it be known,

Me, a listener, a thinker, and artist,

Not like those who bore me,

But I am from a place and time all my own.

A little town, that’s home,

Now a city,

Now a hotel

That doesn’t make me.

I am from the place where I was

Meant to come from,

A time of living is now upon me,

a time of learning,

a time of joy!

I am from my God,

My creator

He made me.

I am from where I was meant to come from,

I would choose no other place…

Nobody Really Knows by Oscar Delgado, Jr.

Nobody really knows how it happened,

The friend,

The lover,

The fighter for your rights.

Nobody really knows how he fell,

Where he went to,

He would just disappear.

Nobody really knows how it happened that

Someone so supportive, strong, kind, and gentle,

Could be lost for 20 years.

He came back once, twice, three times,

Many really,

But always disappeared.

Nobody really knows how it happened.

He was so broken,

But thought he was fine.

Nobody really knows how it happened,

Now they see him, he smiles.

Is it real this time?

Nobody really knows the pain it caused,

The lessons he’s still learning,

The tears he cries to God, if only…

Never comes out, it’s gratitude now.

Nobody really knows how it happened,

How he woke from the nightmare,

All they had to do was ask,

God did,

God knows,

And there’s a secret to his new self.

I wrote my vows

On some calico or other

Eco-sustainable earthy sheet

And framed it in untreated timber

To match my image of who I was

Trying to be.

It hangs in its seeing silence

From our bedroom wall

Asking me to look up

And read it

Once in a blue moon

And I don't.

I meant every word,

All of it is true,

But I have changed.

I am listening.

Words collapse me

From my core.

Tears bleed

From my buried wounds.

My dark cave

Has opened wide

And released me

To what might be possible.

How it all worked out. It never usually works out; well sometimes it does. When things fell apart, I was drinking and taking large quantities of speed, some prescribed, some off the street. I was homeless for a bit. Stopped taking my meds and lost my shit. Mood stabilizers and anti-depressants. She was frightened when the shit hit the fan. I was talking too fast, I was breathing too fast, I hadn’t slept in days. I tramped around our house screaming. Life is, was, can be, too hard. Fuck it, life is shit, so I threw caution into the flames and danced around the pit. She took off out the door. I needed help but couldn’t articulate this level of pain. She couldn’t help me so I called the police. They must have thought someone was killing me, from how I sounded over the phone. Eight cruisers, a firetruck, and an ambulance came to my rescue. Now, no more speed, no more drinking, back to sleeping again, back on my meds. A few months down the road, after many excruciating tribulations, things worked out for us and I’m back home again; but fuck if I don’t deserve it: things always fall apart again, & again—I guess I’m scared I might lose it again, & again….

Recently we collaborated with our friends at Scrag Mountain Music on the Lullaby Project. This program, which was created at Carnegie Hall’s Weill Institute of Music, helps expecting and new moms write lullabies for their children. We visited the Lund center in Burlington and helped 6 moms write lullabies. Then Scrag Mountain performed the songs at concerts in Burlington, Montpelier, and Warren. Here’s a story about the project on VPR. We’ll share some concert footage soon.

When I’m on the road leading Writers for Recovery workshops, my life is a series of downright pleasant surprises. Last night in Burlington, I met an aspiring musician named Oscar Delgado, Jr. He’s got one of those voices that sounds like it’s meant for radio. Oscar wants to use his music to lift up people in the recovery community. Here he is doing one of his original tunes.

Here I Am
What I brought with me, was probably not the best choice.
But I wanted it.
And you are probably wondering, what it is I brought with me.
I suppose you think I’m going to begin with a list of provisions.
But the truth is I brought nothing.
I came with nothing.
And this body was here for me.It has been quite a curious experience.
I’m not sure if I brought my breath, or if breath is what i was.
Maybe just some kind of spark of humanity to inhabit this corporal self.
A spark begun, or lit 58 years ago.
It seems so odd that we just kind of take for granted that we exist.
I’ve been getting up recently thinking how tickled I am that I am here again.
Like the movie Groundhog Day, only instead of it being the same,
it is a different day.
But I’m the constant.
And I've been this constant since I came out of my mother.
But where was i before that? Or was I?
And will I be Me when I leave?

.

The hardest part about it .....what is it.....WHAT IS IT  ?

Is "IT" in me, the hardest part about me ? The puppy in the mill breeding thoughts distorted by another's belief "ie" means of measurement to be or not to be.  "IT" being my father wanting boys....not me...his measurement  your response to his lash....a leather strap or worse yet his words when"IT"  came out after his 3rd highball of the night...the vapor shimmering  off his lips thru the fluorescent light descending from above... heat waves rising of fresh hot tar that has just been pressed in to the earth in late July. 

CRY....cry no tears even thou your crying inside...no tears if you want to be a man...a man means no tears no frills.  I will show you something to cry about...YOU will know what real pain is !!  

You will be a man "IT " said.

"IT" was brutal ..the lashes no longer come from his hand it comes from mine...THOSE ITZIE BITZIE thoughts that come in the early morning before my eyes are even open...before the presence of me....not as often as they once did....they rest upon the ceiling of my unconsciousness....waiting for the "It"...soaking my t shirt..."IT" was making my heart race..."IT" was fear.  Fear from everything and everybody..including the ITZIE BITZIE in me. This is what "IT" taught me.

 The big "IT" died ...now I am left with the Itzie Bitzie in me...

and I can handle it....

with your help ....you have taught me differently

Why does the sky turn light blue on sunny days,

Grey on cloudy days, and dark blue at night?

Why do people cry, smile, and laugh?

And why is there such a thing called pain?

Sometimes, these things make me wonder.

About the law of nature and its way of life.

Why is there a negative for every positive

An up for every down

And bad for good?

How do I even know what’s the truth

And what’s a flat-out lie?

These are the questions that cross my mind.

I was very sad to learn that Carol Van Etten, who was a member of the Barre Writers for Recovery group, passed away on October 7, 2019 at age 68. Carol was a wonderful woman and a prolific and dedicated poet. Over the years, she regularly mailed packets of her work to friends and relatives, and she participated in several WFR readings at Barre’s Studio Place Arts Gallery.

In recent years, Carol had lived in New Jersey. Just last week, Bob Purvis from the Barre Turning Point passed along an envelope Carol sent to Deb and me. We opened it this morning to find a warm letter filled with Carol’s usual positivity, along with a drawing and a number of recent poems. I’ve posted her poem ”Windy Town,” as it includes so much of what made Carol an amazing person: her love of nature, her connection to New England, and her enthusiastic outlook on life. Carol, you will be missed.

Windy Town
by Carol Van Etten

 Taking a deep, full breath of air —

Gaze at the winsome cobalt sky —

Such gratitude persists in my heart

Reminiscent of hearing a baby cry.

Tender, aching sounds abound —

Nostalgia for the love and trust

near me in New England in yesteryear —

In my old home town in Vermont.

Now is a new reality and vibrant

Existence where drawing, reading —

Becoming acquainted with new folks

Cherish the “old” — Welcome the “new.”

I'm crying in the parking lot of the liquor store;
my head's pressed against the steering wheel.
And with the dash directly in front of me,
I realize my car is the perfect analogy for me.

All the lights are on:
the right rear tire is low on air.
The maintenance required light is on.
The back is full of shit from my last move,
and I don't know where to put it or what to do with it.

And the worst part is that the gas light is on.
Because I'm close to running on empty.
And for the first time in my life, that's exactly how I feel.
I am running on empty.
And I don't know if I have the cash to refill.

I am the one who said yes to my first drink, and my first smoke. I accepted being a drunk, a pothead, and a junky. I was good at it, so I thought. But I am the one who made a stand and faced my fears of addiction. I no longer depend on substances to solve my problems. Life is what drives me, and being successful at life to my understanding is what fills my soul. I am the one who woke up today and decided to live — in peace.